Epiphany (1/2)
<Echoes of the Abyss>
A multiplayer horror exploration game with hyper-realistic graphics and high playability. After being introduced in China, it quickly became a craze among young people.
In the game, players take on the role of a journalist, equipped with a camera and limited supplies, tasked with investigating the truth behind failed experiments on Atel Island.
Because the biochemical experiments failed, the island is home to various mutants—both human and animal—which makes the horror factor extremely high and demands strong mental resilience.
Only after instinctively clinging to Gu Yilan did Su Zesui belatedly feel a twinge of embarrassment.
Just a minute ago, they had been in a cold war; he had even put on a “I’ll never talk to you again” act. And now, the next moment, he had thrown himself into Mr. Gu’s arms. How embarrassing wuwuwu!
Thinking this, Su Zesui twitched his nose, ready to pretend nothing had happened and quietly slip out of Gu Yilan’s embrace.
But as Gu Yilan continued to control the game character, a blood-curdling scream suddenly echoed from the projection behind them. Su Zesui immediately forgot his pride and clung to him, whimpering in fear.
The sudden scream in a horror game was spine-chilling, yet Su Zesui could feel that Gu Yilan’s body remained completely relaxed, not tense at all—clearly unfazed.
Such calm control, this composed demeanor, made one… want to lean on him even more.
Anyway, Gu Yilan didn’t seem to mind Su Zesui’s sudden change of attitude, so… might as well stay like this for now. Su Zesui comforted himself internally.
“This game has a lot of intense moments,” Gu Yilan said, moving his character to the save point before putting down the controller and looking at the boy kneeling on his lap. “Are you sure you want to play this with them? You can still back out.”
Su Zesui rested his chin on Gu Yilan’s shoulder, arriving at a crossroads once again.
After a few minutes of careful thought, he murmured softly, “I want to play. Is that… okay?”
He wanted the reward—he wanted to achieve all the ultimate milestones that couples could reach. Compared to going to a scary hospital, he could even tolerate playing a horror game with friends he wasn’t very familiar with.
Gu Yilan raised an eyebrow. “Are you acting cute?”
The boy who had been pretending to be tsundere earlier fell silent.
Facing the grim challenge of playing a horror game with friends, the only person who could help him now was the bold and fearless Gu Yilan.
Not waiting for a response, Gu Yilan stayed silent, leaving the game character still. It was unclear whether this silence was a refusal.
Su Zesui tried to shift off him, but as soon as he moved, Gu Yilan lifted a hand to grip his waist.
After what had happened that morning, Su Zesui’s waist was still sore and sensitive. That single touch drained all his strength, leaving him limp.
He twisted his thin frame, about to question the hand, when Gu Yilan said, “You can, but there’s a condition.”
Su Zesui froze immediately, lowering his eyes to the large hand resting on his slim waist. Swallowing nervously, he asked, “W-what condition?”
“No going to the internet cafe. Have them come to our place,” Gu Yilan said. “The game room will be set up in advance. I’ll stay in the study and won’t come out. Okay?”
“O-okay.” Su Zesui hadn’t expected that condition and exhaled in relief, unsure if he felt disappointed or grateful.
“Come. Sit properly.”
They didn’t have any serious conflict anyway. A few words were enough to break the ice and reconcile.
Gu Yilan leaned against the headboard, pulling the boy’s body close so his back rested against his lap. Thoughtfully, he even fetched a thin blanket and draped it over him.
The master bedroom had sheer curtains, an orange ceiling light, and the horror game’s projection created dim, ambiguous lighting, giving the room an indescribable subtle atmosphere.
Covered by the thin blanket, Su Zesui leaned against Gu Yilan’s solid chest. The man’s strong heartbeat pressed against his back, one hand on the controller resting over his chest.
Gu Yilan’s body temperature was slightly higher than usual. In this embrace, Su Zesui felt wrapped in a warm, protective love, an overwhelming sense of safety.
The room’s atmosphere was intimate and slightly charged. Feeling a little overwhelmed, Su Zesui murmured softly, “Be careful.”
“Mm.” Gu Yilan skillfully navigated the game’s main interface, logging Su Zesui’s character out of the multiplayer mode and entering single-player exploration.
But even without controlling the character himself, timid Su Zesui was still terrified. He raised his hands to cover his eyes, peeking through his fingers to watch Gu Yilan’s gameplay.
“There’s a chest in the storage room. The code is the lab door number. It has to be opened in advance…”
Gu Yilan lowered his gaze, smiling at the inexperienced but eager boy. “This part isn’t scary. You can watch without worry.”
Trusting him completely, Su Zesui let his hands fall and leaned softly against him.
But he hadn’t relaxed for long before he heard the man behind him suddenly lower his voice: “Three—”
Su Zesui shivered, sitting up in alarm. Hearing the man’s unusual words, he stiffened his neck and didn’t dare look back, afraid that Gu Yilan had been possessed by a ghost from the game.
Luckily, the man’s next words carried a trace of amusement in his voice, easing Su Zesui’s worry: “Two—”
Su Zesui didn’t understand the purpose of the countdown, and reality didn’t give him time to react before the man continued: “One. Close your eyes.”
Su Zesui instinctively shut his eyes tight, and at the same time, the man’s scorching hand pressed against his ears.
Even with his ears covered, Su Zesui could still hear the ghostly screams from the game—horrific, relentless, pounding on his eardrums and brain.
A few seconds later, when the ghostly face in the box had finished screaming, Gu Yilan finally removed his hand and said lightly, “There. It’s gone. You can watch again safely.”
Su Zesui patted his chest, still shaken, and looked at the man with a newfound admiration. “Y-You… how did you know?”
“I cleared it this afternoon,” Gu Yilan said, controlling the game character with unwavering focus, his tone casual. “I’ll take you through it again.”
Su Zesui felt a little embarrassed. He hadn’t even finished his study plan that afternoon, too busy sulking. He hadn’t expected the man to already have made progress on his behalf.
He lifted his small face and gave Gu Yilan a compensatory peck on the cheek, awkwardly praising, “You’re… really amazing.”
Just as he was about to lower his head, Gu Yilan caught his cheek. His slightly parted lips were forced into a fleeting, light kiss—gentle and brief, but enough to make Su Zesui’s face heat up instantly.
Gu Yilan let go, immediately returning to his usual composure, and said, “I’ll tell you which parts to watch out for and the logic behind them. Take notes, and you can show off to others later.”
Hearing this, Su Zesui couldn’t care about being shy. He straightened up in study mode, even reaching for his notebook and pen—but Gu Yilan pressed him down.
<Echoes of the Abyss> was a newly released game; even top streamers hadn’t cleared it yet. Guides were practically nonexistent.
Gu Yilan’s reasoning was frighteningly sharp. Even under the high-pressure of a horror game, he had a perfect memory, picking out key information amidst all the irrelevant details, effortlessly clearing level after level.
Su Zesui, both awed and mentally noting every word and gesture, imagined himself confidently pointing out the “No, you’re all wrong. This is the real problem” moment in front of his friends and receiving their admiration.
The man’s calm demeanor and clear, detailed explanations temporarily lifted the terror of the game.
When faced with a series of problems, people usually focus only on the most immediate, glaring ones. Once that major problem is solved, they gradually realize the smaller issues.
Just like now—once the game was handled, Su Zesui found himself worrying about how to interact with those “friends.”
He was, after all, severely socially anxious. He had memory loss and didn’t even remember their faces. And today, he’d just ruined an interview…
He felt too embarrassed to voice these concerns to Gu Yilan—it felt overly dramatic.
After all, he had insisted on taking on this “social challenge,” against Gu Yilan’s protests, and even made him play the horror game multiple times for his sake. Now to say, “Actually, I’m a little scared of socializing and seeing people”… that would be just too much.
——No, no, absolutely not.
As Su Zesui thought this, a hand suddenly covered his eyes. The man’s deep, resonant voice, mixed with the climax music from the horror game, resonated: “What are you thinking about? Daydreaming now?”
“N-Nothing…” Su Zesui said guiltily. “Just… thinking about what to wear tomorrow. So many couple outfits… which one should I wear for my classmates to see? Um, I’m…”
“Afraid of seeing your old classmates?” Gu Yilan cut him off calmly, seeing through the hesitation in his words.
Su Zesui froze. “Y-You… how did you know?”
Gu Yilan raised an eyebrow. “I have mind-reading skills.”
The boy was smaller, curled in his arms. A single glance downward revealed his absent-minded eyes and trembling lashes, the exact same stress response he’d always had with strangers.
“I’m sorry,” Su Zesui said, head bowed, filled with self-doubt. “I’m afraid I’ll mess up again. I… will I never get better?”
He expected to be scolded for acting recklessly, or worse: “Do you know how much I’ve done for you, and now you’re saying you’re scared and don’t want to?”
But the man behind him only spoke vaguely: “Some learning is gradual, like accumulating knowledge. Just like your competitions, it requires months of practice.”
Su Zesui didn’t fully understand, but it sounded reasonable, and he nodded.
“But some learning comes in a flash—an instant change. Just one experienced person’s guidance, a sudden insight, or a spark from exchanging ideas. Such a change might never happen in a lifetime… or it could happen at the very next moment.”
Gu Yilan continued controlling his game character through minor, inconsequential battles.
Su Zesui understood a bit and gently poked the arm resting across him. “Guide me, brother.”
Gu Yilan let out a silent laugh. “I can’t guide you. I can only tell you that maybe you don’t see the hope now, but you might be very close to getting better.”
Su Zesui felt genuinely comforted and was about to return to the game when Gu Yilan added, “But maybe I can give you some insight. Buddhism says all cycles of existence are empty.
When you feel uncomfortable or embarrassed, think of the vast universe—we are but a speck in space, a moment in time, insignificant. Think of all the great figures in history who thought themselves important—they too vanished into time, returning to dust.
Looking at your life from a higher perspective, realizing you’re just a tiny part of it all, might make things less painful.”
Su Zesui considered his words. “Th-Thank you.”
Gu Yilan curved his lips. “This dungeon level will end soon. Let’s take our time with these last few days.”
“O-okay.” Su Zesui liked curling up in the other’s embrace in this way.